An Ambitious Wee Chappie
by Grey-eyed-semicolon
Summary: Voldy visits a certain person he met when he was six years old...


**An Ambitious Wee Chappie**

**Disclaimer:Do you really think J K Rowling would murder Santa?  
****Warning:I am a Santa-murderer  
****Author's Note:Read, review, don't flame, enjoy. And don't murder me just because I murdered Santa.**

Tom Marvolo Riddle scowled, a grade 3 scowl. He couldn't see the point of coming to see a fat, bearded muggle man dressed up in red and white clothes. What was meant to happen? Nothing the muggles thought up ever worked anyway.

The queue edged forward, slower than a traffic jam in the centre of London, and that was saying something. That was another thing the muggles were bad at – organisation. And they had no manners, he thought irritably as a short, bespectacled man pushed him out of the way. Tom gave him a weak glare, about grade two.

Tom waited…

And waited…

And waited…

The queue edged on, trying to keep moving as little as possible.

He waited…

And waited some more…

And more…

The pigtailed girl in front of him entered the tent. Tom scowled. He didn't want to go in there.

He waited…

And waited…

And jumped as a scratchy voice called, "Next!"

"On you go, Tommy," urged the lady from the orphanage who had brought him. He glared at her, this time another grade 3, and reluctantly stepped into the tent.

It smelt of smoke, sweaty old men and cabbages. Now, if there was one thing Tom hated more than being treated like a six-year-old (whether he was one or not was irrelevant), it was the smell of cabbages. He choked.

"Hello, little boy," beamed the fat smelly man who called himself Santa, lifting Tom onto his lap. Tom struggled feebly, but couldn't escape. "What's your name?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," muttered Tom, sulkily.

"How old are you? Four?" the idiot asked, his beard waggling stupidly as he smiled.

"Seven in September."

"And what do you want to be when you grow up?" The man leaned closer, and Tom got a noseful of smoke. He coughed. "A vet?"

"No!" What did this 'Santa' person take him for?

"A doctor?"

"No." _Doctor?_ Where did that come from?

"A teacher?"

"Definitely not!" Tom shuddered. Teaching was even worse than going into medicine.

"Hairdresser?"

"Don't be stupid," scoffed Tom.

"A racing driver?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

Santa looked a bit surprised.

"A spy?"

"Excuse me, I am not planning to spend the whole of my life living a lie!" Tom would have thought the stupid man would have got the hint by now, but Santa carried on regardless.

"A plumber?"

"…Nor fix faulty taps."

Santa stared at Tom, presumably because of his wide vocabulary. Tom almost laughed. "A policeman?"

This time, Tom did laugh. "A – policeman!" he gasped. "Tell me – another – one!"

Santa looked on, perplexed. "What, then?"

Oh, come on, Tom thought. You mean you haven't guessed yet?

He drew himself up to his complete height of 2'7" and said, proudly, "The most evil Dark Lord of all time, of course!" How thick are you?

Santa looked relieved, seemingly glad to be back on firm ground. "Ah, you're an ambitious wee chappie, aren't you? Well, learn your sums and you might just get what you want. And here's your present," he added, handing Tom a badly wrapped object.

Tom prised away the pale, wrinkled fingers and took the box. "Thank you." Even with brainless and decrepit old men, he didn't forget his manners. His mother would be proud of him.

He hurriedly left the grotty grotto and breathed the fresh air deeply, jumping as a scratchy voice called, "Next!"

* * *

Lord Voldemort stood up, slowly, grandly. He was, as he had once predicted, the most evil Dark Lord of all time, and he had one more thing left to do.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, but Lord Voldemort did not care about this as he Apparated into a large shopping centre. He scanned over the heads of the crowds doing their last-minute shopping. There!

A hooded figure stalked over to Santa's grotto. The queue suddenly dispersed as he approached it. Finally, there was just one little pigtailed girl standing in front of the door. "Excuse me," said Voldemort, pushing in front of her.

He jumped as a scratchy voice called, "Next!" Then he entered the grotty grotto.

It was almost exactly the same as he remembered it. There was the fat, bearded man wearing red and white. There was his sack of presents. And there-

Lord Voldemort sneezed as he caught a whiff of smoke, sweaty old man and cabbages, combined. _Ugh!_

He turned to face Santa. "Do you remember Tom Marvolo Riddle?" he asked, treating the man to a top-of-the-scale-grade-5 glare.

Santa nodded. "He wanted to be the most evil Dark Lord of all time, poor chap."

Lord Voldemort scowled, this time an off-the-scale-and-probably-grade-7 or so. "He _is_ the most evil Dark Lord of all time. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle. Call me Lord Voldemort." A maniacal grin split the shadowy face. "_Silencio!" _All sounds from outside the tent were muffled, and Lord Voldemort raised his wand again. "_Crucio!"_

Santa seemed to lose track of time, of which Lord Voldemort was not surprised. The Cruciatus curse did that to some people. He briefly raised his wand, simply to hear the blubbering man's hopeless apologies. "It is too late for that now."

Forty-three short breaks later, Lord Voldemort was losing patience with the man. He should be insane by now. Of course, he may have been insane already, but Lord Voldemort doubted that. Santa lay on the floor, curled up as small as possible and whimpering, for no reason that Lord Voldemort could see. "I am losing patience with you, Santa," he said, coldly.

The yew wand came up again, and a flash of green was the last thing Santa ever saw.

"Teach you to patronise Lord Voldemort," muttered a hooded figure as it strode from the shopping centre.


End file.
